


Band-aids Don't Heal Bullet Holes

by Maple_Fay



Series: What Is It Worth [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning to Earth, Kathryn deals with certain wounds that haven't had time to heal yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Band-aids Don't Heal Bullet Holes

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Taylor Swift for making me write this piece in its entirety a few hours after I'd heard "Bad blood" for the very first time.

“Oh, Kathy,” her mother says, looking equally saddened, aggravated and  _furious_. “I’m so sorry, darling.”

She raises a questioning eyebrow, at least half of her attention devoted to giving out blank smiles to all the ‘Fleet brass passing them by. “Whatever for, mother dear? I’m home, safe and mostly sound. Those ghastly debriefings are finally over. I look like a woman for once,” she makes a vague gesture with her champagne flute down towards the full skirt of her blood-red gown to emphasize her words, “—and I feel  _fine_.”

Gretchen Janeway’s eyes move to a target Kathryn can’t see unless she turns around: which she will not do without due cause, all too aware of the scrutiny and attention she’s under. “I meant—that thing about Chakotay and…”

Leave it to the woman who gave birth to her to go straight for the jugular and see through all of her smoke screens. “Mother, please. They’re both adults.”  _One of them quite some more than the other_ , her treacherous mind supplies easily. “If they wish to build something together, well: who am I to deny them a bit of happiness after everything they’ve been through?”

Her mother’s expression turns downright incredulous. “But—he’s marked you.”

Kathryn nods solemnly, her face perfectly impassive. She doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now—not  _ever_ , if she can help it—but if this is what helps to clear the air and get rid of the  _targ_ (sadly, only the  _proverbial_  one) in the room, she will. “Yes. Yes, I believe he has: but it will heal.  _I_  will heal. Just… give me time, please.”

Somehow, Gretchen is not convinced, her face laced with worry as she moves her right hand down from Kathryn’s shoulder to the middle of her back. “But, love—your beautiful skin…”

She remembers then  _exactly_ how low the dress is cut in the back, and curses herself for not having thought of that earlier.

Of course it’s still there. Not enough time.

She wishes the Doctor was here.

–

_“Was it poisonous? I can’t feel anything. A numbing agent?” she grumbles, moving the injured shoulder in a slow circle._

_“Mostly probably,” the EMH concedes, his brows furrowed in confusion. “We don’t have this substance in our database, which is rather remarkable…” He catches her unimpressed stare and clears his throat hastily. “Anyway. The swelling seems to be contained for now; I have actually detected a 0.015 percent diminishment since I’ve begun the examination. I believe it will heal quite nicely on its own, given time, but I could experiment with some ointments if the sensation troubles you?”_

_Kathryn shakes her head, stretching her muscles some more. “Thank you, it’s fine for now—I’ll let you know if I feel any discomfort. How long do you suppose it’ll last?”_

_“No less than a fortnight, no more than a month. Provided you get enough sleep and vitamins.”_

_She grins unrepentantly, slipping her arms back in the sleeves of her uniform jacket. “Six weeks, then.”_

_It is the Doctor’s turn to look unimpressed. “Can I at least get you to promise you won’t go on any more ‘wildlife exploration missions’ for a week or so, captain?”_

_She gives him that one without much convincing, although she silently reserves a right to go back on her word if they find some particularly interesting planet._

_–_

_Thirty-six hours later, she looks her older self in the eye on the viewscreen, and forgets all about the claw marks on her back: three slightly curved, elongated lines, and the fourth, innermost, a half-circle binding them together._

_Yes, it does remind her of a certain tattoo she’s been looking at for the past seven years._

_She tries not to look—either at the original, or in the mirror._

_She forgets her own marking, because she can’t_ not  _remember his._

–

“Mother, it’s not—I’ve been injured on an away mission four weeks ago.”

“Injured by what? A tattooing needle?”

“Actually,” she drinks another mouthful of champagne, “it was a space bobcat.”

“Kathryn Janeway, I think you’ve had quite enough of the drink.”

“It was! I mean, it looked like one, and we were in space…” She shrugs, polishing off the remaining liquid in her glass. “There was no need to look for a better name, really.”  _No time, no need, no immediate gratification in finding a name for something so fleeting_. Is she still thinking about the animal? Probably not.

“Is there a reason why you didn’t get a treatment for it? It looks rather garish, Kathy.”

“It will get absorbed into deeper tissue soon enough,” she waves off her concern, signaling a passing waiter to get her another glass of champagne. She wants to feel the customary lightness brought on by the bubbles, a tipsiness she could hide behind until she’s back in her room, temporarily rented out from Starfleet housing administration—until she strips down from the dress and heels and elaborate ruby jewelry Anna Paris lent her, and slips between unfamiliar sheets, closing her eyes against the dark. She wants to feel her muscles relax, her head fall slightly back as she regards the males in the room, noticing their interest in her (the hero who brought her crew home, the renowned scientist, the redhead in oxblood dress) and dismissing it on the spot. She wants to forget again.

And yet—she stays infuriatingly sober, no matter how much alcohol she imbibes.

(She blames the space bobcat poison in her system. It  _has_ to be a thing. The Doctor would agree with her: where is he, anyway? She needs to contact Medical as soon as possible—now, in fact, would be a good time.)

She notices Owen Paris making a beeline towards them, and pats her mother’s arm reassuringly. “Trust me: there’s no harm done. Nothing that time won’t fix, anyway. These things, they last for a while—but then, it all goes away. Such is the nature of wounds. Isn’t there a mathematical theorem that says everything will equal a perfect zero in the end?”

Gretchen watches her oldest child with quiet concentration, lovingly and soothingly and absolutely  _infuriatingly_. Kathryn doesn’t need pity, not right now, not ever: not even from her own mother. “I think you might have confused it with infinity, darling.”

Which is a very troubling idea in itself. “I need to place a call—I’m sorry, I’ve only just remembered,” she says hastily, brushing her lips against the disapproving frown on her mother’s forehead, and nods at the approaching Admiral. “Owen. A pleasure. Would you excuse me for a minute?”

She feels their eyes on her bare back, burning all the way down her spine—except for that small patch of skin, the color matching that of her dress, four thick lines pretending to be something they’re not.

–

“Ah, Captain Janeway,” the EMH smiles, obviously pleased to see her. “Weren’t you supposed to attend a welcoming banquet for the crew this evening?” He tries to sound casual, pleased, relaxed—but she hears all of his unspoken bitterness, grudge and sorrow, and substitutes it with her own.

They’re really very much alike, the Doctor and herself.

She believes he’s luckier than her—if he didn’t want to hold on to a particular memory (or in fact, close to seven years’ worth of memories), he could simply ask someone to rewrite his program. She doesn’t have that option.

Is it normal to be jealous of a hologram?

“I’m actually calling from the assembly hall,” she answers with a smile, twirling yet another glass of champagne in her fingers. “Everybody sends their best. They wish you were here with us.”

“I’m not sure most of them remember who I was by now,” he gently chastises her for lying so obviously, and laces his fingers together, “but thank you for saying so. Now, what can I do for you, captain?”

“It’s about the scratches,” she explains, reaching up to touch her left shoulder. “I was expecting them to start fading out by this time, but they’re still very much there. Any idea why?”

The EMH frowns, nonplussed. “Perhaps it’s something in your body’s chemistry that’s slowing down the healing process?” he muses, tapping at some PADDs she cannot see from her side of the console. “Every person’s unique physiology makes it nigh impossible to predict how long it would take for a particular wound to heal.” He looks up from his data, and leans slightly forward. “Captain, if I may—you’ve chosen to deal with the injury by ignoring it, and letting nature take its course, but it clearly isn’t working. Perhaps if you allowed me to take more direct action—“

She shakes her head, raising a hand in protest. “You cannot guarantee that said actions won’t aggravate the problem even further. I’d rather not take that risk.”

“It  _might_  help your healing process, though,” the Doctor points out gently, and suddenly Kathryn gets a feeling they’re no longer talking about the bloody marks on her back—at least, not entirely. “Doesn’t that make it worth the risk of losing the status quo? Wouldn’t it be better to know whether—“

“I’m tired, Doctor,” she says curtly, cutting through his words. “I am so,  _so_  tired. I’ve just finished three weeks of tedious debriefings. My ship is being taken apart by people much too eager to see her torn into spare parts. My crew needs my help settling back into their families and jobs. My own family expects me to be a perfect daughter, perfect sister. My superiors expect stellar performance. I cannot allow myself to be waylaid by a process that may not even work.”

“But surely, getting rid of the pain—“

She’s aware of a breath of colder air on the nape of her neck, but doesn’t turn from the screen, doesn’t acknowledge another person’s presence in the comm. suite. (From the way fine hairs on her neck stand up instantly, she can already guess who it is. No need to turn around, no need to confirm.) “It’s not pain, exactly. It’s… numbness.” She shrugs one shoulder, empties her glass. “I’ve learnt to live with it—long ago.”

The Doctor’s eyes flick to the other occupant in the room, and Kathryn puts her glass down with slightly more force than necessary.  _Enough_ , she thinks.  _Enough already_. “I’m glad to hear it’s not a life-threatening injury, anyway,” she arches an eyebrow at the EMH, daring him to deny it. “Thank you for your help, Doctor. I’ll come down to the Medical by the end of this week, if you could spare a few minutes?”

“I’d be happy to.” The smile he gives her is shaky at best, but she’ll take whatever she can get by this point. “Goodnight, captain.”

She cuts the connection and stands up, her back tense as the awareness of the other occupant of the room closing in on her tingles down her spine. He’s right  _there_ all of a sudden, a warm, solid presence on her left, heat emanating from a hand raised level with the red gashes on her back. She stands still, head turned ever so slightly to the right to stop herself from seeing, at least, when all she can do is  _feel_ : his breath on her bare shoulders, the heat of skin barely touching hers, an overwhelming need to pull away, escape from the room and never stop running until she reaches her temporary asylum.

She’s tired.

She doesn’t  _care_ about healing. She just wants peace. Quiet.

Rest.

“Did you want something?” she ask, her voice whisper-low. The hand behind her back quivers; another kind of whisper—a touch.

“Kathryn—“

“I can’t,” she says, reaching out blindly and finding her mark with absolute surety; she’s never done this before, never touched him there—but the image is always with her, projected on faces of aliens who look nothing like him, burnt out under her eyelids when she presses them together in the dark. “I can’t.”

He nods, and her fingers slip, down the side of his face, over the unfamiliar fabric of his uniform.

“Later?” he asks, and she almost changes her mind when she hears the hope and pain in his voice.

Almost. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll wait.”

She lets him trace the lines on her back with the tips of his shaking fingers, then takes the first of many steps—away from him. Away from the pain, and into the numbness.

“Goodnight, Chakotay.”

**/end**


End file.
